Honor: A Novel(64)

Bombay was convulsed by another riot in 1996, and this time, the flames spread to their affluent neighborhood. Asif and Zenobia watched in disbelief as Muslim-owned cars and shops were vandalized and burned by mobs wielding kerosene cans. Still, they kept quiet and laid low, putting their faith in their Hindu friends and the impermeability conferred by their wealth. “Arre,” Asif would say, “I know every bloody person up and down this lane. Nobody is going to hurt us.”

But one night, the family came home from a play and found a copy of a column that Asif had written for the Indian Express pinned to their front door, a large red X running through it. The column, already a year old, had mocked the improbable claims made by Shivaji’s most devout and fundamentalist followers. You Islamic bastard, a note read. Next time you won’t be so lucky. We are coming for you.

Asif’s face turned pale. “Take the children and go inside,” he whispered to his wife. “And pack a suitcase. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Zenobia asked, but he was already taking the elevator back down.

He came home a half hour later, heavy-footed and shell-shocked. He made sure the children were in their rooms before motioning his wife to sit beside him on their bed. “I went to see Dilip,” he said. “Since he’s president of the building association and all. I told him about the threat and suggested that we hire more security for the building immediately.”

“And?”

Asif paused. “He phoned the other co-op members to come over. They came. And they said they didn’t want any problems with the thugs. They all blamed me for bringing trouble to their doorstep. And they said that . . . that the best thing would be for us to shift.”

“Shift? Shift where?”

Asif nodded absently and stared at the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were cloudy. “That’s what I asked. They said we should move out until things cool down.” Then, at last, the tears came to his eyes. “Not one of them said they’d come to our aid, Zenobia. Not one.”

“Asif, they all have their families to think of. These are hard times.”

His anger had finally found its target. “Don’t. Don’t take their side. These people, these bloody people. How many times have they come to our parties? They have eaten our food, drunk my liquor. And this is who they are? In our time of need?”

They talked late into the evening. They considered moving in with a distant cousin, but when they called, the petrified woman said that Muslims were being beaten on the streets in her neighborhood. In other homes, the phone rang and rang, and they surmised that the occupants had fled.

Finally, at 11:00 p.m., Zenobia said, “Beatrice Auntie.”

Beatrice Gonzales was an elderly Anglo-Indian woman who lived in the building across the street. She had been the librarian at the children’s school, was already ancient when Sameer had started there, and had retired the year Zeenat entered third grade. Every week, Zenobia dropped off a couple of meals for the elderly spinster, who was getting more and more infirm.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Zenobia called. Beatrice’s voice was drowsy when she answered, but as soon as she understood the reason for the call, she was wide-awake. “Come over,” she said immediately. “Bring the children and come over now. Asif, too, obviously.”

“Pack some clothes for a few days,” Asif told his wife. “Until this blows over.” He pulled on his goatee. “I don’t want any of our neighbors to know where we’re going. I will call Jafar bhai and tell him to bring his taxi around in a half hour. We should tell our neighbors we’re leaving town.”

“You want a taxi to go across the street?”

“That’s the whole point. We will have Jafar go out to the main road. Then we can drive around her building and go in from the back entrance. Understand?” He stopped, struck by another thought. “Call your friend Pushpa and tell her we’re bringing all your jewelry to her for safekeeping.”

“Is that a good idea? I can go to the bank tomorrow and put it in the security box.”

“Zenobia, it’s better if we don’t leave Miss Gonzales’s house for a few days. Pushpa has that big safe, remember? You only told me when Gaurav bought it for her. She can keep our belongings in there.”

Pushpa nodded gravely as she accepted the heavy cloth bag of gold necklaces and diamond bracelets. “Be safe!” she cried as she hugged Zenobia. “Phone me, and I will tell you when it’s safe to come home.”

“Where to, Asif sahib?” Jafar said when they were in the cab. “Churchgate or Victoria Terminus?”

“Drive,” Asif said. He pulled out a hundred-rupee note. “This is for your trouble, bhai. Just take us around to the next street and then pull up to the back entrance of Royal Apartments. We had to make a show of leaving, you see?”

Jafar, a fellow Muslim, understood immediately. “Excellent idea, seth.”

He helped them rush into the building and carried their suitcases up the two floors to Beatrice’s apartment.

The old lady opened the door at the first knock. After his wife and kids had entered, Asif faced Jafar. “You know you can’t . . .”

“Sahib, you gave me the down payment to purchase my first taxi. My family eats because of your largesse. I am forever in your debt. You don’t have to . . .”